


Page Three Hundred and Sixty-Four

by haes, RiaTheDreamer



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Blood Gulch Chronicles, Canon-Typical Violence, First Kiss, Fluff, Humor, Illustrated, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, RvB Reverse Big Bang, chorus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-21
Updated: 2017-11-21
Packaged: 2019-02-04 19:37:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12778035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/haes/pseuds/haes, https://archiveofourown.org/users/RiaTheDreamer/pseuds/RiaTheDreamer
Summary: Equal in length to an encyclopedia, the Red Team Handbook has a lot to say about everything. From the proper way to pile hand grenades (see illustration on page twelve) to the correct color rank (all the way from#ff0000to#ffa500) and the three easiest ways to spot a Blue in disguise (look for weak spine, shaking knees and lack of honor) - yet it still fails to tell Simmons how to survive with an orange, annoying fatass for a teammate.Or how to stop falling in love with him.





	Page Three Hundred and Sixty-Four

The Red Team Handbook said an awful lot about explosions. Simmons had assumed it was merely precautions – surely no one would need to know the proper way of stashing fifty-seven crates of dynamite. But according to the description then such a pyramid’s improvement to the blast radius would be a sight to see.

But Red Base in Blood Gulch didn’t have fifty-seven crates of dynamite. It didn’t even have one. They did, however, have an impressive (and unnerving) amount of hand grenades stuffed in a storage closet. Simmons’ fingers itched to restack them in a less potentially catastrophic manner but Sarge had claimed they were already sorted in the right way – the _red_ way – and that it had been this way for decades. That just made Simmons question the efficacy of Red Team, though of course he would never say such distasteful things out loud. Well, at least not while Sarge could hear it.

Luckily, Red Team Handbook provided him all the answers.

 _Section 2.1: Red Team is, and will always be, the best team. Always. No exceptions.  
Section 2.2: Hence Blue Team will always be the worst team. Always. However, should the situation require it, the official color ranking is as following: #ff0000, #800000,_ _#a52a2a, #00ffff, #0047ab, #ffa500._

“Red Team sucks.”

“Are you crazy?” Simmons closed the book but kept a finger in-between so he could find the right page again. “Sarge is right next door!”

“Oh. Right.” Grif inhaled. “ _Red Team suuucks_!”

The book fell out of Simmons’ hand as he gasped in shock.

“What?” his teammate asked, rolling over in his bed to stare at him. “You think he heard that? ‘cause I sure hope so.”

“You’re going to get yourself kicked out.” Simmons leaned down to pick up the handbook and carefully flipped through each page until he found the right section. “No, wait: you are going to get yourself shot.”

“Sarge said I'd be a waste of bullets.”

Simmons held up the book and turned it so he could see its title. “Well, section 6.7 says never to waste a good meat shield.”

“Wow – are you telling me that the handbook is contradicting itself? With Sarge as the author? Oh my, what a surprise!” Grif grunted as he pushed himself up with his palm. It was still an hour until the official night lockdown but Grif had been in bed since just after dinner. He claimed he was saving up energy for tomorrow – an excuse that had been used just a bit too often by the orange teammate. “Didn’t you read that thing yesterday?” he asked, nodding his head towards the book.

Simmons tugged it closer to his chest. ‘ _That thing’_ was hardly a worthy way of referring to the codex that would eventually give Simmons his much earned promotion. “No. Well, yes, but I didn’t finish it.”

“What? You fell asleep halfway through? I wouldn’t blame you – I didn’t last four pages.”

“I suppose you couldn’t handle a book without pictures?”

“Don’t forget the lack of plot, climax, tension, humor, philosophy and overall usefulness.”

“I’m sure it’ll be useful tomorrow.”

“Doubt it.”

“You doubt the Red Team Handbook will tell us about how to fight Blues?” Simmons asked just a bit too flatly for it not to be an insult.

Grif made that face again – the one that made it clear he found this situation amusing. Simmons hated that face, mainly because he was pretty sure _he_ was the source of the amusement. “I am sure it will be filled with various ways to kill and/or maim Blues – but since Sarge has obviously written it, I doubt its usefulness.”

“The introduction says it is written by the very first and reddest of Reds.”

“Yeah, then why does it mention my name in some of its stupid rules?”

“This is the newest edition! Sarge keeps adding notes – and that is only good: a great team is always willing to accept critique and revise its codex.” It only served as a proof of their Sergeant’s efficiency – they had only been stationed in the canyon for a few days yet he had already found the time to rewrite the book in order to deal with Grif’s incompetence. Simmons was only grateful to serve such a quick-thinking leader.

“Tell me, when are we ever going to need to know the correct definition of irony? And the proper ways to execute me?”

Simmons raised an eyebrow. “So you did read the book?”

“I’ve read enough to know never to follow Sarge if he ever asks me to help him out in the back of the base.” Grif sat up and ran a hand through his hair. “Wouldn’t be surprised if tomorrow turned out to be a secret suicide mission just to get rid of me.”

“It won’t. I mean, I’m coming with you and there’s no logical reason why he would want to get rid of both of us, well, not me, at least, _I’m_ not the one who called Sarge insane on the very first day we arrived.”

Grif just shrugged like he hadn’t wasted his entire chance of getting somewhere with his military career. “Meh. Pretty sure you qualify as replaceable.”

“I, wha- No way. I’m not- Look, without me, no one would be doing the work since you are definitely not gonna lift your fat ass and do anything.”

“That’s a point,” Grif said before yawning. As he stretched out his arms above his head he made sure to send Simmons a smug glare with his stupid brown eyes. “Someone needs to kiss Sarge’s ass.”

Simmons found it very hard to argue against that, so he didn’t.

* * *

_Section 2.2: Should the proper definition of_ red _ever be questioned due to a lack of colorimeters,_ red _will always share the color of the blood of our enemies._

* * *

There was enough distance between the two bases for Grif to declare that he had enough time to smoke a cigarette while they walked. Simmons argued that he didn’t want to suffer from lung cancer, and Grif replied by blowing smoke in his face and telling him that his lungs probably wouldn’t collapse before reaching Blue Base.

Grif carried his helmet in one hand and held his cigarette with the other because he was too stupid to realize there was a chance of getting shot in the head. “So, let’s say we actually capture the flag – and honestly, I don’t think any of us are counting on that scenario – what would the next step of action even be?” Turning his head towards the frozen sun above him, Grif squinted. The look on his face seemed pleased, though, instead of annoyed. He must be enjoying the fresh air. Weird, since he was already addicted to cancerous, dirty smoke.

After a moment of consideration, Simmons cautiously took off his helmet as well. He ran a hand through his hair to brush it away from his forehead. He was sure he was only sweating because of the nerves – which was only natural, considering this was their first real mission. A lot could go wrong. And Simmons really didn’t want to receive a scolding from Sarge.

“Uhm… Pretty sure we’re supposed to bring it back to our base,” he said and adjusted the rifle that was strapped to his back. Not too far now.

“And?” Grif kept pressuring. A cloud of smoke left his lips to drift towards the sky.

Simmons only hesitated for a moment. “Section 6.3 mentions that if you defeat a Blue in the process, we are in fact allowed to teabag them.”

“Dude, I’ll never teabag someone. I’m better than that. Plus, teabagging is basically the same as squats and I’m allergic to those.”

Simmons truly doubted that could explain Grif’s tendency to faint during training. “Right.”

Grif tilted his head slightly so he could look at him. His lips were pulled slightly upwards in a sly smile. “I’d love to see you pulling it off, though. Show them your uptight ass, Simmons, right in their face.”

The sun was too bright. Simmons tugged at the collar of his Kevlar suit, trying to let in air to cool down his skin. Was it always this warm in Blood Gulch? Or maybe Grif just had a point about the sun being weird. “Stop talking about my ass.”

Grif looked at the sun again. He had dimples, Simmons realized. “So let’s say we bring the flag back to our base and we hang it up on the wall or Sarge uses it as a freaking bath towel or whatever – do we get to go home?”

Having to think about that question caused Simmons to slow down just the slightest. He quickly caught up with the orange soldier, now wearing a frown. “No, that’s when we have to defend two flags.”

“So… twice the work,” Grif concluded with a shrug.

“N-“

“Why bother?” He finally dropped the cigarette and squeezed it under his boot. “If we’re not getting sent home anyway.”

Sometimes it was easy to wonder how Grif had ended up in the Red army, considering he barely even knew who he was supposed to be fighting. Simmons’ frown turned annoyed as he said, “Well, after humiliating the Blues we are supposed to defeat them – how have you not gotten this yet?!”

“So we’re supposed to kill them?”

Grif had obviously _not_ read the handbook.

“ _Yes_.”

The orange soldier spread out his arms. “Then why even bother to steal the flag? Isn’t that just an unnecessary step? When we have to kill them anyway why bother with the ridicule and gloating?”

“Uhm…” Simmons blinked.  “Because Sarge wants it?”

Grif put the helmet back on, hiding his already neutral expression. “I’m just saying that if you give me an internet connection I could order a blue flag from Ebay and save us the trouble.”

“No.” Did they even have internet connection out here? Simmons let his thoughts trail off for a moment – oh how he missed his high school hobby of programming which was much easier than getting a headshot with a gun - until he remembered Sarge’s orders. He straightened out his back and firmly pulled the helmet back on. “ _No_. We are doing this the right way.”

They had finally reached the top of the hill that separated the two territories. They could see the target from here, blue flag waving in the wind to taunt them and taint the landscape.

“And which way is that?” Grif asked.

Even though his teammate sounded too bored to actually want an answer, Simmons decided to give him one anyway.

“By the book.”

* * *

_Section 5.4: Reds do not, under any circumstances, get cornered._

* * *

They were cornered.

There was a certain irony to that. Simmons even checked the definition of irony according to the Handbook and, yes, this was indeed ironic.

Simmons pressed himself against his highly convenient rock, and for a moment just thought about how awesome nature was – especially when it was so kind to provide cover.

Nature was almost _too_ kind since Grif was also currently hiding behind his own rock. He was closer to the Blue Base than Simmons, and the distance between them forced him to use their radios in order to ask, “If we have to do it by the book couldn’t we have chosen one where the heroes don’t get shot to death?”

“Oh, shut up.”

Simmons peaked up over the edge, seeing the two soldiers that had definitely not been standing on top of the base when they first tried to sneak inside. Another bullet flew in his direction, and Simmons dove down into safety with a whine.

“So what did your book say again?” he heard Grif say inside his helmet. “Always flank them by the front because the Blues only expect an ambush from behind? Are we really surprised that this is the result?”

“It would have worked had _someone_ not stepped on an empty bag of chips.”

“Sure. That was louder than _someone_ bitching about said bag of chips.”

Another bullet dug into the ground dangerously close to Simmons’ rock. At least the ground could take it. The ground was sturdy like that.

His radio flared up again. “Does your genius book have a solution to this situation? And please don’t say run towards the enemies with a battle yell.”

Simmons closed his eyes and tried to mentally go through the chapter about offense strategies – he knew those late nights staying up reading had not been in vain. Eventually he had to frown. “Well, that rules out section 6.6.”

“Oh my god, why do you know it by memory?”

Simmons wished that was true but it would require at least a week more practice. “I don’t. Just parts of it. But I did bring it along in case we-“

“-in case we needed to bore the Blues to death?” Grif ever so rudely cut him off. “Good thinking, nerd.”

It was obviously not an actual praise. Even back in Basic Simmons had quickly learned about Grif’s sarcasm. He was yet to grow fond of it, though, and he wondered if that would ever happen. With narrowed eyes Simmons opened his mouth to give him an equally snarky reply but he was interrupted before he could even utter a single word.

“Yo, Reds!”

It came from Blue Base. Simmons slowly peaked over the rock again.

“What?!” Grif yelled at the enemies, and Simmons had to winch since their radios were still turned on, causing the voice to be too loud in his ear.

The aqua one – the one that wasn’t aiming a sniper rifle towards Simmons’ beloved rock – threw up his hands. “This is getting boring! Can’t you pop up your heads and go back and forth and say quack or something?”

And here Sarge had told them over and over again that this very mission would be the most important one in their lives. Forget about graduation or the day they had been granted the red armor. Today was the moment they would prove their worth. And now the Blues were asking them to hurry it up.

Sarge had been right about their despicableness. “This isn’t a carnival!” Simmons yelled and quickly hid again due to the lifted sniper rifle.

The armed Blue waved his weapon in the direction of Grif. “Well, that guy is already yellow – just play a shooting duck so we can get this over with.”

“Fuck you! I’m orange and you-!”

“Actually, he has a point,” Simmons had to admit.

His voice was too low for the Blue to hear but Grif quickly hissed back through their radio, “You know, I didn’t pick you for a colorblind, Simmons. Do you ever look at your nose and think it looks red? Because I really want you to know just how brown your nose is.”

“Shut up. We are going with contingency plan 12.”

“Which goes…?”

“Leave Grif for the vultures and make a run for it,” he dryly quoted the Handbook.

There was a moment of silence before a sigh could be heard. “Oh, c’mon.”

Simmons continued undisturbed, “And, if time given, cover him in ketchup to ensure the attention of the vultures.” Shifting his weight on his feet, he was able to move forward to get a better look at Grif. The orange soldier was crouched next to his rock. “I wouldn’t be surprised if you actually brought a bottle along for emergency snacks.”

Despite the distance, he was able to see Grif flip him off.

Simmons sighed. “Sadly, there’s no time for the ketchup part.”

“Oh, yeah, what a tragedy.”

From his position Simmons had a better chance of reaching Red Base. He was closer to it, and he was in a much better shape than his teammate. The only reason Grif had wandered so far into Blue territory to begin with was because he had lit another cigarette and Simmons had threatened to put it out if he did not move the smoke away from him.

With such a situation, there was clearly only one solution left.

Simmons took one last look at Grif before positioning himself so that he could make a sprint back to safety.

Grif must have be able to see this from his cover, since he snorted over the radio, “Seriously?” When Simmons did not reply, his voice turned more rushed and panicked. “Siiiimmons. C’mon. Buddy. You wouldn’t leave me here.”

“Everyone would. It’s literally in the book. We get cornered, you’re the meat shield.”

“We’re not cornered!” Grif argued. “There’s just something in our way! It’s like an obstacle course, you like those! Just sprint towards Blue Base-“

“No way. Sarge says you’re to sacrifice yourself for me because _I_ actually contribute to the team.” Simmons turned his head again, trying to ignore the bullets that were still being shot in their direction. “Besides, you wouldn’t even make it back to the base. You’d faint before you even got out of Blue territory.”

Grif didn’t respond to that so there was silence on the other end of the call. The truth was hard to deny when shoved in your face so flatly.

“Tucker, just get the fucking grenades already!”

“What? So you can throw them forty feet away from them? Isn’t it enough missing them with the bullets?”

“Oh, like you are doing a better job!”

“I would if you would just hand me the rifle! What are you expecting me to do – stare at them until they fall over?”

Simmons was not panicking, but was instead just feeling the natural adrenalin caused by an exciting mission. Of course. “Shit, they are bringing in grenades.” He looked at Grif again before sending a longing glance in the direction of Red Base.

“Simmons.” Grif’s whine reminded Simmons of the stray dog his father had once kicked. “You won’t leave me behind.”

One of the Blues had disappeared – apparently to fetch the grenades. Simmons started to shift the weight on his feet. “Sorry. I’m sure you’ll be fine.”

“C’mon.” There were some seconds of panicked murmuring until Grif apparently was hit by an idea. His voice turned a bit lighter as he practically yelled, “What about section sixty-nine?”

Simmons had almost been about to sprint but the question caused him to freeze with his foot in the air. His eyes narrowed in concentration.  Sixty-seven, sixty-eight… “Uhm… I don’t remember what it says.”

Grif sounded breathless, “Well, that’s… That’s really offensive, buddy, ‘cause it says that Red Team is a team where nobody gets left behind, that we stick together, right to the end, and-“

“That doesn’t sound like Sarge,” Simmons cut him off. His eyes were still narrowed – now in suspicion. “On which page is this section 69?”

“Uhm… Three hundred and sixty-four?”

“The Red Team Handbook isn’t even that long.” There was still only one Blue on the roof. Now was the chance. “I’ll see you later. Probably.”

He barely had one foot away from the rock before a shout rang out:

“THERE’S A RUNNER!”

“YOU-“ Simmons was about to yell back at Grif, anger caused by this petty betrayal, but his shout turned into an _eep_ when a bullet dug into the ground only an inch away from him.

“Ooh, that one was actually close.”

Simmons ran. He ran faster than when he had tried to gain a medal to show his father back in third grade by competing in the track race – he hadn’t won back then, but maybe he would have had a chance now.

“Fucking, fucking, fuck, fuck, fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck.”

With bullets flying around him, Simmons someone managed to get back to his base. He had tripped once or twice, maybe a bit more, but since Simmons had actually participated in all the training courses back in Basic, _unlike someone else on their team_ , he was capable returning home without fainting.

He did double over, hands on his thighs, panting heavily as he tried to catch his breath.

He stumbled into the base with a hand on the doorway, and his lungs were still stinging when Sarge appeared out of nowhere. “Simmons! Did the Blues admit defeat already?!”

Sarge sounded so happy and pleased that Simmons barely dared to break his heart with the truth.

“Uhm…”

“Did they cry? Did you remember to harvest the tears? No sweeter ingredient to add to the well-deserved victory dessert.”

“We-“

“I recommend apple pie! Like momma made it! Red apples only. Tastes like victory! Tastes _red_.”

“…I do like apples, sir,” Simmons had to admit gingerly. Grif hadn’t called him on the radio, but that had to be because of the distance. They must have lost connection. Definitely.

Sarge took a mighty step closer. “Where’s the flag? We need to wave it in their faces while the wound is still fresh.”

“Actually, we didn’t quite capture the flag.” When Sarge let out that low growl that meant he was getting upset, Simmons realized he had to lift the mood. He gulped before adding, “However, we did manage to lose Grif to the Blues.”

“Huh.” Sarge tilted his head as he considered this. Finally he huffed and put a hand on Simmons’ shoulder. “I knew you wouldn’t disappoint, son.”

“You… you did?” Simmons’ eyes were burning but that was probably just his allergies acting up. He felt good, though. In fact, he felt great. He straightened out his back in pride, a smile widening behind his helmet.

And then Sarge walked past him. “No time for patting on the back! Go grab the recorder before the screams die out!”

Simmons blinked before stumbling after him. They halted outside the base where Sarge stared in the direction of Blue Base, standing perfectly still, as if listening.

“I’m not hearing any screaming,” he finally said, grunting in disappointment.

It clicked for Simmons that he was talking about the captured Grif. Well, the hopefully captured Grif. “Me neither. Do you- do you think they…” Something cold and unpleasant settled in his stomach. He had not thought of how grimly this mission could go wrong. But it probably hadn’t happened. Probably.

“We have to get closer, then. Those diabolical Blues won’t give us anything without a fight! Not even this well-deserved pleasure.” Sarge started to march forward with long steps. “Keep up the pace, Simmons! No lollygagging!”

It took a second before Simmons could get his legs to work. “W-wait, are we going to go get Grif?” he asked, trying not to sound hopeful enough to annoy their leader.

“Obviously the Blues don’t know what to do with him. Can’t say I blame them: boy is that big a waste it numbs your brain.”

The distance to Blue Base suddenly seemed much smaller with Sarge leading the way. He marched forward with big steps, back straight, and Simmons made a point out of staying behind him. Sarge obviously knew where to go, and Simmons still remembered all the bullets that had been shot after him.

But when they reached the base, no weapons had been fired yet – though with the way Sarge kept a tight grip on his shotgun, it might not last too long.

“Too quiet,” he muttered and Simmons had to agree. However, the silence was broken when the Red Team leader yelled from the top of his lungs, “Hey, Blues!”

It took a couple of seconds before Blues appeared on the roof. Simmons shifted uncomfortably at the sight of the sniper rifle.

“Holy fuck, what do you want, Reds?! You’re overstepping your three harassments a day limit! It’s a waste of ammo and you know it!”

“Well, you should start actually hitting us then!” Simmons widened his eyes as he realized what he had just said. “And that was meant as an insult! Not an actual advice! I’m allergic to bullets!”

Sarge raised a clenched fist towards them. “This is the final straw, Blues! We leave Grif at your mercy – and you don’t even have the guts to torture him! To taunt us right in our face like that – we won’t take it.”

“He’s asking if we can have Grif back?” Simmons explained helpfully. “We suppose you’re kinda tired of him already.”

The Blues shared a glance. “Oh, you’re talking about the orange guy?” When Simmons nodded eagerly, the enemy continued, “Yeah, he’s gone.”

The sun was very hot in Blood Gulch. “ _Gone_?” Simmons said and something got stuck in his throat, making it squeaky.

Maybe that was why Grif had not tried to contact him yet. Simmons had assumed –

Well, judging from how Grif had survived the army life so far, despite his horrible shape and mental strength and his lack of willingness and loyalty and overall manners, Simmons had never thought Grif would just be gone like that. Grif always showed up, no matter how much you wanted him gone. Most often he would appear at the most horrible times, like when Simmons was crying in the bathroom or slamming his forehead against the wall in frustration.

He felt rather horrible. Maybe that would be the cue for Grif to appear. But that would require the Blues to be wrong.

“He left like ten minutes ago,” the Blue continued, “While _somebody_ apparently forgot to keep an eye on him.”

“Hey, don’t go blaming me that you had to fetch more bullets because you ran out.”

The Blues started to argue while Simmons blinked again. He was finally able to move, and he turned his head when he noticed Sarge suddenly turning around.

“Are we heading back, sir?” he asked and was not quite able to hide the surprise in his voice.

Sarge did not slow down and Simmons had to hurry after him.

“Son, if the Blues are telling us the truth that means Grif is alone at the base with the pantry unsupervised! Do you want to starve to death?!”

* * *

_Section 7.2: Do not under any circumstance leave the food supply at the hands of orange soldiers whose name so unfortunately happens to start with G, and in the worst cases ends with -rif._

* * *

He found Grif in his bed. Which on one hand was surprising since Grif was not dead, but on the other hand was rather usual since it was his favorite spot in the base.

Simmons stopped in the doorway to stare at him, removing his helmet just to be sure his HUD was not glitching again. “You’re-“

“You dropped your stupid book.”

Something hit Simmons straight in the face, and he had to regret his lack of helmet. The Red Team Handbook fell to the floor. “ _Thanks_.” He reached up to rub the sure spot on his forehead before bowing down to pick it up. “How did you manage to get away?”

Grif snorted loudly. “Got comfortable, took a nap. By the time I woke up they were too busy arguing whether or not a girl judges your penis size by the length of your gun – I’m gonna back up the rude one here – to notice me slipping away.”

“…Which one is the rude one?” Simmons asked as he stepped further inside to sit down heavily on his bed. He’d spent the entire day running back and forth between the two bases, and now he could really feel it in his thighs.

Grif never bothered to answer the question. He turned over in his bed, revealing a bag of chips he was holding tightly in his hands. He ate with his mouth open, causing Simmons to narrow his eyes in annoyance. Grif tilted his head. “So did you and Sarge leave to give the Blues a thank-you card? ‘cause I’m still debating whether that would be out of character or not. On one hand Sarge would definitely be happy to see me dead – but him being _nice_ and _polite_ to the Blues? Which one weighs more?”

Simmons crossed his arms and looked at the amount of crumbs Grif was spilling on his chest. “Actually, he was there to scold the Blues for not killing you properly,” he let him know while slowly pulling off his armor pieces.

After swallowing a chip, Grif looked at him with a tilted head. “Oh. That makes way more sense.”

Simmons placed his armor in a neat pile. It was hard since you couldn’t fold armor plates, unfortunately. “You should probably try harder the next time.”

“Why? ‘cause it would break your heart to see me dead?”

There was a moment of silence.

“Sarge says we can have apple pie if we win,” Simmons finally answered him, now stripped to his Kevlar suit.

“Are you kidding me?”

Grif was actually sitting up now. He was staring at Simmons, and his brown eyes suddenly seemed alive. It was… weird.

It was surprisingly hard to meet that glance. Simmons ended up staring at the floor, cheeks tingling. “That’s what he said.”

“Dick Simmons.” Grif made sure to put weight on every syllable, pronouncing Simmons’ name in a way he had never heard before. In fact, he was not quite sure Grif had ever said his full name before. At least not in that tone. “You are not cruel enough to lie to me about pies, are you?”

“I swear, that’s what he said.” Simmons placed his hands on his lap, leaning slightly forward. “Don’t know where he’ll find the apples, though.”

“Man.” Grif fell on the mattress again to lie on his back, staring at the ceiling. “This almost makes it worth it.”

“Really?”

“Nope.” Grif sighed deeply. “But better to fight for pie than to fight for nothing.”

* * *

_Section 2.3: Should there be a soldier dumb (and orange) enough to say our real enemy is ourselves, don’t correct him. Instead, offer to lend your shotgun, praise him for his willingness, and, that’s right, Grif, here’s your chance to pull your own weight for once! By making it a dead weight. Literally. Simmons is in charge of fetching the shotgun before the idiot changes his mind._

* * *

“This sucks,” Grif managed to declare between the gunshots.

Grif was such a fan of that line that it hardly felt justified to use it now. Simmons was pretty sure Grif would daily let them know of at least three situations that sucked, most often being dish duty or training sessions with Wash, and Simmons wanted to argue that today was much, much worse.

But time was rather limited at the moment, and it was hard to keep an eye on the enemies while also sending Grif a scolding glance. “Don’t jinx it,” Simmons just barked at him, trying to keep his focus on aiming with his gun. It turned out guarding the door was a lot more difficult when the enemies kept coming.

Simmons had just fired another round when Grif suddenly grabbed his arm and pulled him downwards with a surprising strength. Maybe it was just his weight working in his favor. “Down!” A bullet embedded itself in the metal door just above their heads. Simmons let out an _eep_ that probably didn’t qualify as manly.

“Fuck this,” Grif breathed out when more figures appeared at the end of the hallway.

And to everyone’s surprised, Sarge huffed, “Agreed.”

Simmons froze – which was probably not a good idea considering the amount of people trying to shoot him. “We’re retreating, sir?”

“No. We’re backing away menacingly.”

“Don’t need to be told that twice,” Grif muttered, and then they all, Red and Blue alike, fled inside the room they had been guarding.

It was a saferoom. Momentarily.

And the moment was steadily running out of time.

_Section 5.4: Reds do not, under any circumstances, get cornered.  
Section 5.5: However, the distinction between getting cornered and setting up a trap goes as following – Blues get cornered, Reds are always so prepared they might not even have realized it yet._

Simmons was pretty sure this counted as being cornered.

“What the fuck are those?” Grif asked and pulled Simmons out of his thoughts that were getting bleaker the closer the burning laser came to the floor.

Simmons held up the new fancy guns he had mentally called dibs on by grabbing them before anyone else. “Uhm, alien guns?” And if they were alien they had to be more powerful than the old, ordinary magnum.

“They’re purple.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“Eh…” For a moment Grif glanced towards Doc who was laughing menacingly in the corner of the room. “I’m just saying this is the whole final stance scene Sarge has been yelling about for years. Better have something you know can kick ass.” He adjusted his hold on the Grifshot while turning his head towards the door. Not too long left now.

Simmons gestured towards Grif’s weapon. “Feels good having it back?” It felt good _watching_ Grif with it again. He looked good with it. That was… good.

Grif shrugged but even his constant nonchalance could not hide how natural he looked with the giant thing. “It did save my life once.”

 _It better damn well do it again_ was left unsaid in the stuffed air.

“Didn’t the handbook tell us not to get cornered?” Grif suddenly pointed out. He was adjusting his grip on his favorite weapon, trying to get a steady footing.

Simmons flexed his fingers so they wouldn’t act up when he had to pull the trigger – because he was going to pull the trigger. A lot. “I didn’t think you cared about rules.”

“It’s never too late to point out the Red Army’s incompetence.”

Maybe it was that brief second where fear crossed Grif’s face that made Simmons gulp. The sight was over before anyone else could see it, but Simmons knew now – knew that Grif felt it too. The feeling that this might be it.

 _Shit_.

Simmons inhaled shakily before his mouth decided to say, “So, uhm, section 69?”

Grif tore his glance away from the door – less than a minute now – to tilt his head towards Simmons. “What?”

“Reds don’t leave Reds behind,” he said, trying to remember the exact words. It had been so long ago and he’d brushed it off back then, but right now – right now he decided he was going to write the rule at the very end of the handbook, and to even add lines beneath the section so it would be easy to find in emergency situations. “We stick together and make it through-“

“Aw, shit.”

Time was up. They all focused on the door, or more exactly on the laser that was just about to touch the floor. A few seconds of preparation, tightening their grip on their weapons, one shared glance-

And then it began.

The storm of bullets appeared immediately, hoping to take them by surprise. They knew they were cornered, knew there was nothing left to do but fight.

And so they did.

Simmons pulled the trigger until the first Needler ran out of ammunition. It proved to not be completely useless, despite its purple color. A bullet flew past his head, more than a bit too close, and he didn’t turn to see it get stuck in the wall behind him.

Tucker, outfitted in the now aqua colored super suit, suddenly jumped forward with enough strength to force back the guards that had made their way inside. Simmons was okay with the Blue playing a hero if it saved all their lives. That would be rather handy.

 Simmons used the time to reload, watching Tucker swing his sword in the corner of his eye. The Blue stormed his way down the hallway, halting the constant stream of guards getting into their room. For a moment.

At some point Donut let out a loud _eep_ , sounding alarmed enough to make Simmons turn his head because Donut had a habit of always getting shot or blown up or killed in any way possible. And while the fact that Donut hadn’t died yet, for some weird and illogical reason, should be somewhat comforting, it didn’t stop Simmons from worrying.

Something hot and sharp pierced his arm, and he gasped, looking down. But it was his left arm, and the liquid dripping down from the bullet wound was black, not red, and that had to be good. Maybe a bit disconcerting, but better than the alternative.

When he shook his arm he realized he could still move it freely. It hurt, but nothing more than he could handle.

At least Sarge’s plan to turn him into a cyborg had helped him in the end.

“ _Simmons_!”

He looked up just in time to see a soldier, gun raised, getting just too close. The sound of Grif’s voice made Simmons spin around, trying to get a proper aim to take him out before-

But Grif was faster, surprisingly, for once, and before Simmons could receive a bullet to his forehead, Grif leapt forward to shove the knife part of the Grifshot into the torso of the enemy. There was a moment where he just looked at the orange soldier, arms dropping as the realization set in.

Grif pulled back, tearing his weapon free with a sickening sound, and the soldier slumped to the floor. Grif stared down at him, watching the red spread, and so he didn’t see the soldier in the doorway, taking aim, weapon pointing at Grif’s helmet-

Simmons fired, pulling the trigger multiple times until the grey-armored soldier finally fell over. Grif was staring at him, maybe for a second too long, and then he nodded before pulling his Grifshot up again, ready for another attack.

Doc – or O’Malley for all they knew – fired a rocket that exploded in the hallway. A lot of people yelled, and Simmons recognized one of them as Sarge but he wasn’t sure if he was hurt or just angered. His ears were ringing, and the smoke made it hard to see, and he stumbled backward, winching as his injured arm brushed against something, orange armor…

He was pressed against Grif, he realized, and for a moment the pressure hurt but then the pressure seemed to grow strangely comforting. Maybe a cord has just snapped in his arm, preventing the pain from being sensed, because the stinging began to dull, and Simmons lifted his arms, firing again and again, and he remained so close he could hear Grif strained breathing as he fired grenade after grenade and-

And then the battle was over.

The aftermath, as least the first part of it, was a quick blur filled with concerned voices and panicked yelling and sighs of relief and then Church’s name being said over and over.

Sarge had been grazed by a bullet and while he kept saying it was nothing, Grey wanted to take care of it, and no one really dared to refuse her orders. Something was wrong with Donut’s leg but he insisted he could keep himself up just fine, and he leaned awkwardly against Lopez as they went to the ship.

Wash had been taking care of a dazed Tucker who kept muttering about Church. Caboose had been crying, and the sound of that had been just awful, almost echoing in the otherwise quiet room. Then Carolina had finally been able to move again, somehow working past the shock to quietly drag Caboose with her.

Simmons was in a ship, Grif leaning heavily on his shoulder. They were sitting down, legs suddenly too tired to keep standing. But it was okay. The fight was over now.

This might just be the only time Simmons wouldn’t keep Grif from napping. They deserved such rest now.

Simmons would nap too, but he felt too tired. Too tired to sleep probably wasn’t a good sign.

But for now he just stared blankly into the corner of the ship where they had placed their helmets on the floor. The swaying movement as they steered towards solid ground was somewhat soothing. He faintly remembered Bitters being their pilot, and, well, as long as it just wasn’t Jensen. They had not survived all this just to die in a ship crash.

“So,” Grif said, and Simmons couldn’t help but jump slightly in surprise. He’d been sure Grif had been sleeping. “Section 69?”

“Yeah.” Like the first forty digits of pi, the number is stored away in the back of his mind, ready to be brought up the moment the situation required it. “Page three hundred and sixty-four.”

Grif snorted, and the sound was soft in the otherwise quiet room. They could hear the hum of the ship’s motors, but Bitters had closed the door to the cockpit. Simmons wanted to believe it was to grant them some privacy but chances were the lieutenant had just grown tired of them.

“Thought the book wasn’t that long,” Grif reminded him and adjusted his position so his elbow nudged again Simmons’ shoulder.

“Well, it got some revision. And Sarge kept adding stuff. Things got a bit more complicated after we began to, well, not kill the Blues at sight.”

“Right. How did that backstabbing rule end up again?”

“Section 9.2 says a Red is always to backstab a Blue. But section 9.3 says the backstab does not have to be literal. And with the addiction of section 9.4 it’s been made clear the backstabbing does not have to be immediate but can be saved for future circumstances that may or may not happen.”

Grif let out a noise that counted as a brief laughter. “Good old Sarge.” He moved again, accidentally pressed against a growing bruise on Simmons’ ribs. “Weird we didn’t die.”

Simmons pursed his lips before frowning. “I wouldn’t describe it as _weird_.” There are other, more positive adjectives he would use to describe that, yeah, they did in fact not get killed back there. It was a surprise. But a good one.

 “I’m just saying it’s surprising we’ve lived this far.”

“What, you expected to die in there?” Simmons tried to add a snort of disbelief at the end of his sentence, like he hadn’t been considering gravestone inscriptions and funeral planning and a desperate hope that he wouldn’t have to track down Kai to tell her bad news. Oh, and that he didn’t die. Dying had definitely been on Simmons’ list of worries, but first below being the one left behind.

As always, Grif read him too well. “Oh, like you didn’t have your doubt. _Section 69_. Since when the fuck did you get sappy?”

“Excuse me for wanting to stay positive.”

“Fact is we went through a lot of stuff that’s the fucking opposite of sitting in the couch and chilling. So things that sucked. Considering we’re on Red Team and has to deal with the madness that comes along with that – yeah, I’m pretty fucking surprised we survived so far.”

There were stubbles on Grif’s cheeks, revealing he hadn’t shaved for days. Normally Simmons would bitch at him for this, but ‘ _busy’_ barely managed to describe how they had felt the last week. A single drop of sweat was rolling down his forehead, trickling over a swelling near his cheekbone. There were worried wrinkles etched on his face now, something that hadn’t been plaguing him back in Blood Gulch but, well-

“It has been a lot of years,” Simmons told him with a shrug. A lot had happened since he had stepped into Basic Training, young and hopeful. He never got those medals he’d dreamed of…

“Are you saying we’re old? Missing the times your forehead was free from wrinkles and we only had to fight idiots who couldn’t handle a sniper rifle?”

“I don’t have wrinkles,” Simmons replied immediately. Scars for sure, but the he didn’t look _old_.

Grif rolled his eyes, looking up at him. The blue iris that had once been Simmons’ looked amused. “ _Sure_. Donut always has that facial cream with peach scent if you reach that point.”

“Sounds like you’ve used it.” The smooth retort came easily, like a danced they’ve practiced for years. They both knew the routine.

Grif played his part, faking a shocked expression. “Me? Oh no. My face is flawless, Simmons, _seamless_.”

They both ignored the scars and bruises and sweaty forehead that seemed to contradict that statement.

Instead Simmons leaned closer, taking a better look, and agreed, “It is a pretty nice face.” Did his voice sound weird? It sounded weird in Simmons’ head. Too squeaky and awkward. But that was how he always pictured it.

“…Is that a compliment? Simmons, are you actually saying something nice to me? ‘cause I’m pretty sure that’s against the rules.”

There were plenty of rules involving Grif, many of them being added as Sarge got to know him, and while the rules allowed both manhandling and the occasionally shotgun round to the face, Simmons could not remember one discussing the use of complimenting words.

“There’s no section about that,” he finally concluded. The movement of the ship indicated they were about to land, and as good as it would feel to be back on safe ground, he suddenly felt a need to draw out this private moment.

“Really? That’s a surprise.” Grif tilted his head and sent him _the look_. The glint in his eyes that had never changed throughout all the years. His eyes were just a bit too smug, a bit too amused with the situation, too happy with Simmons’ presence. “What about kissing?”

Simmons narrowed his eyes; not in annoyance but because he could figure out how Grif was playing at. He knew Grif like that. “I’m not sure,” he said slowly, refusing to make it that easy for him. Sometimes – most times - you had to force Grif to do the work. Especially if it involved _actual work_.

“Well,” Grif said, moving his head closer to send him a sly smile, “I’ve never minded breaking the rules.”

Simmons waited, closing his eyes. He could feel Grif’s breath on him. He could smell it too – not exAactly unpleasant, but that didn’t mean he’d stop reminding Grif to brush his teeth twice daily.

The ship shifted slightly as they landed.

Nothing happened and it was only a matter of time before the hatch would open, revealing them to the rest of the world.

Simmons furrowed his brow in annoyance and opened his eyes to look at Grif’s teasing smile. Asshole was not making it easy for him. Of course.

So that left it the hard work to Simmons. As always. But they had survived everything so far, every crazy Freelancer and AI, every maniac out to get them, every training session and Sarge’s plans, even being cornered in a ship filled with enemies. So Simmons could survive this.

Probably. Most definitely.

“Asshole,” he said and quickly leaned down to kiss his lips.

When he pulled away, the hatch was opening and Grif was grinning at him.

“Rulebreaker.”

**Author's Note:**

> I've had the honor of working together with the amazing Grimmmons. Be sure to check out their amazing art at https://grimmmons.tumblr.com/ !!!
> 
> With the two drawings in mind, we both wanted to show how the boys and their relationship have changed through the years, and I'm so happy with the final result! This has been such a fun challenge, and once again be sure to check our Grimmmons' stuff!


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